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TO MY DAD 



COMPILED BY 






WALLACE and FRANCES RICE 



DECORATIONS 



BY 



ELIZABETH IVINS JONES 





NEW YORK 

BARSE AND HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 



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Copyright, 1913, by 
BARSE AND HOPKINS 



The publishers and compilers wish to acknowledge their 
obligations to all who have contributed to the contents of 
this volume, and especially to Mrs. Edwin Oscar Gale and 
Mr. Oliver Marble Gale for permission to use extracts from 
the works of the late Edwin Oscar Gale, to Mrs. Helen 
Ekin Starrett for the poem of her sister, the late Florence 
Ekin Allison, to Miss Florence Holbrook for the poem from 
the works of her late father, Edmund S. Holbrook, to Miss 
Rena Albertyn Smith, Miss Grace Berenice Cooper, and 
others; and to Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company and 
Mr. George Horace Lorimer for extracts from "The Let- 
ters of a Self-Made Merchant to his Son," to Mr. Mitchell 
Kennerly and Mr. William Rose Bene! for a poem from 
"The Lyric Year," to Messrs. Forbes & Company for a 
poem by the late Ben King, to " The Ladies' Home Journal " 
and Mr. Strickland W. Gillilan for a poem by the latter, to 
"The Saturday Evening Post," and Mr. Louis E. Thayer 
for a poem, and to Messrs. Samuel Ellsworth Kiser, Ray 
Clarke Rose, Donald Robertson, Bert Leston Taylor, Charles 
Hanson Towne, Christopher Bannister, John Jarvis Holden, 
and Alexander Maclean. 








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J ET this be said of Fathers. All our 

•■^ thought of God, Creator, heavenly 
Friend and tender, is surely based, since 
Time began, upon our human fathers here 
below; and His all-knowing justice, quick 
to smile upon our goodness, slow to punish- 
ment however much deserved, is founded 
deep upon our knowledge of the kindly 
men who are our sires, and still our surest 
friends in all this troubled world. Within 
their hearts our lives had being, from pro- 
foundest love rising within their souls our 
younger souls took birth, upon our baby- 
hood their eyes rested with gentleness, our 
stormy youth passed its slow hours with 
sympathetic light from their lost little days 
to give it guidance. Their toil, their weari- 
ness, their upward flight were all for us, and 
on this faithful duty performed so well is 
reared the edifice of civilization and the 
dome of state. — Wallace Rice. 




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1\7HEN I was just a little kid 
* * My Daddy seemed so big and grown 
I thought him dreadful old, I did, — 
Older than anyone I'd known. 

It never once came in mv head — 

When I was just a kid, you know, — 

That his own boyhood was not dead 
And had not passed so long ago. 

Of course I knew — and knew it then — 
That some day, say next century, 

Small boys, like me, grew to be men; 
But never men as old as he! 

In those young days I used to wonder, 
When I'd done wrong and had been 
caught, 

Just how it was Dad knew, by thunder! 
So much about my inner thought. 

Well, I know now my dear old Dad 
Has never lost the thoughts of boys, 

Nor how it feels to be a lad 

With little hopes and fears and joys; 

And every year, as these years end, 

My Dad more youthful seems to me — 
More of a boy, more of a friend, 
And younger than I used to be! 

— John Jarvis H olden. 
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[F he's wealthy and prominent and you 
*• stand in awe of him, call him 'Father/ 
If he sits in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders 
at ball games and picnics, call him 'Pop.' 
If he tills the land or teaches Sunday 
School, call him 'Pa.' If he wheels the 
baby carriage and carries bundles meekly, 
call him 'Papa,' with the accent on the first 
syllable. If he belongs to a literary circle 
and writes cultured papers, or if he is a re- 
former in politics and forgets to vote, call 
him 'Papa,' with the accent on the last syl- 
lable. If, however, he makes a pal of you 
when you're good, and is too wise to let you 
pull the wool over his loving eyes when 
you're not; if, moreover, you're sure no 
other fellow you know has quite so fine a 
father, you may call him 'Dad,' but not 
otherwise. — H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. 

i""\AD — just dad: what love breathes 
*~* around that name wrought by Love 
itself! Throughout the year more lavish of 
gifts than days of June, he finds happiness 
in bestowing happiness. Not only does he 
give comforts and material protection, but 
by his strength of spirit, by his sympathy 
and sincerity, by his experience wrested from 
the years, by his joyous and youthful heart 
triumphing over grief and strife, his ex- 
ample is itself a teacher of life's greater 
values. —Rena Albertyn Smith. 

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X\]THEN I was a very little lad 
* * I used to go walking with my Dad, 
Sunday ! Yes, that was the day for me, 
The day of days, when Dad was free. 

He always bought me a red balloon 
That seemed to me as big as the moon, 
And he always took me to some fine shop 
And gave me a glass of ginger-pop. 

He took me out in the country, too, 
Where buttercups and daisies grew; 
And on one big bridge we used to stand 
And watch the ships — it was Fairy- 
land. . . . 

Dad died when I was still quite small, 
I think I missed him most of all; 
And, though I've seen 'most every sight 
Since I was such a little wight, 

I often long for those Sunday walks, 
My red balloon, and our simple talks ; 
And I've sought, but I never can seem to 

find 
Those curious streets that used to wind 

To that wonderful bridge on which we stood, 
And that flower-filled meadow by the wood. 
Yet I know if I found them the tears would 

start, 
And I think it would almost break my heart. 
— Charles Hanson Towne. 
9 



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I N my father, I observed his meekness ; his 
*■■ constancy without wavering in those 
things, which after a due examination and 
deliberation, he had determined. How free 
from all vanity he carried himself; how gen- 
erally and impartially he would give every 
man his due; his skill and knowledge, when 
rigor or extremity, or when remissness or 
moderation was in season; and that when- 
soever any necessary business upon some 
necessary occasions was to be put off before 
it could be ended, he was ever found when 
he went about it again, the same man that 
he was before. His care to preserve his 
friends; how neither at any time he would 
carry himself toward them with disdainful 
neglect, and grow weary of them; nor yet 
at any time be madly fond of them. How 
he was neither a superstitious worshiper of 
the gods, nor an ambitious pleaser of men, 
or studious of popular applause; but sober 
in all things, and everywhere observant of 
what was fitting; in those things which 
conduced to his ease and convenience with- 
out pride and bragging, yet with all free- 
dom and liberty: so that as he did freely 
enjoy them without any anxiety or affecta- 
tion when they were present, so when ab- 
sent, he found no want of them; keeping 
within the compass proper to a man who 
hath a perfect and invincible soul. 

— Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. 







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IV/f Y Daddy he's just been and told 
^ "■• Me just the funniest thing! 
I always thought men were too old 
To be remembering 

When they were boys, if they ever were — 
And here Dad's been and showed 

That they were babies once — yes, sir! — 
Before they went and growed. 

And Daddy got the papers out 

With pictures of great men; 
And I guessed how they looked, about, 

When they were babies then. 

There's Pres'dent Taft — well, he was round 

And kind of smiling slow; 
And Daddy said that that was sound, 

And guessed that that was so. 

And Pres'dent Rosyvelt, well, he — 

Well, he'd just up and holler 
Till all the folks came in to see; 

And Dad said, 'That might f oiler.' 

And Pres'dent Wilson, well, he'd blink, 

All kind of still and slight, 
And sort of make-believe to think; 

And Dad said, 'Guess you're right.' 

And say, if they were babies — gee! 
There's some show for a boy like me. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 
11 



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\\ 7HEN Dad was young, he used to be 
* * So good he made his parents glad; 
He hadn't any faults, and, gee! 

The kind thoughts that he always had! 
It made him glad to wash his face, 

And always do what he was told; 

□ And there was peace about the place — 
His father never had to scold. 



Dad says his hair is grey because 

My wickedness has made it so; 
I'm not the kind of boy he was 

When he was little, long ago. 
I've put the wrinkles in his brow, 

And robbed him of his hopefulness, 
And he'd be young and happy now 

If I had not been born, I guess. 

When Dad was young he used to try 

To keep his parents full of glee ; 
He never made his daddy sigh, 

And was as good as good could be! 
Dad was an angel child, but still 

My poor old Grandpa has white hair; 
And who, I wonder, helped to fill 

His face so full of lines of care? 

— Samuel Ellsworth Riser. 

A li 7HEN the old man waggles his head 
* * and says, 'Ah, so I thought when I 
was your age,' he has proved the youth's 
case. — Robert Louis Stevenson. 

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C\R summer Saturday's long afternoon 
^"^ I used to climb, barefoot, one throne- 
like knoll, 
Soliloquizing, "Father's coming soon." 
The grey pike billowed eastward like a 
scroll, 
And vanished in the summit of a hill 

A world-long mile away; around me 
played 
The shifting sunbeams, magically still, 
Tiptoeing from each ever-lengthening 
shade. 

I knew that when they crept into my ken 
Above the hillbrink I should know the 
span: 
White-stockinged bay, head-tossing grey; 
and then 
The strong familiar figure of the man. 
I'd know him — know him! Leaping with 
their joy 
My swift feet from my cairn would bear 
me down — 
A laughing, zephyr-hearted, eager boy, 
Welcoming home my father from the 
town! 



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One day my father went away again; 

Perhaps the sun shone, but we could not 
see. 
I have not climbed that little knoll since 



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For Father is not coming home to me. 
Somewhere he waits upon a sun-kissed hill 
And softly says, 'My boy is coming soon.' 
He'll know me from afar — I know he 
will!— 
When, world-tired, I trudge home, some 
afternoon. 

— Strickland W. Gillilan. 

TPVEAR Dad, as your daughter takes a 
*^ backward glance over the road of her 
youth before rounding the corner of new 
duties, she sees the way lighted by the sac- 
rifices of fatherly love ; she sees burdens not 
dropped but made easier to bear; she sees 
wise and helpful counsel which guided past 
days of temptation and nights of discourage- 
ment; and in every weary hour she found 
always a sane counselor, a sympathetic 
friend in her dear Dad. 

— Grace Berenice Cooler. 



A 



KINDER gentleman treads not the 
earth. — William Shakespeare. 





'\ZOJJ know so much at twenty,' said 
"* the father to his youthful son; 'so 
much more than you will at thirty. At 
forty you will begin to suspect me of know- 
ing something; and at fifty you will wish to 
Heaven that you knew as much as your 
Daddy. I know, because I'm fifty.' 

14 






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~^IM o'er the pastures the deep shadows 
"**-^ gather; 

Twilight brings truce to the labors of men, 
And the tired world doth return, like a 
father, 
Unto the home of the evening again. 

Long pleasant shadows that wait the stars' 
blisses 
Follow the feet of the toilers, who come 
Glad from their labors to soft clinging 
kisses 
And the sweet cheer of their children and 
home. 

What are the toils of the day and their 
traces 
When, 'mid the wonder of roses and dew, 
Strong arms and slender are twined in em- 
braces, 
Young hearts and old pulsing tender and 
true? 

Darkling the night comes to doom the day 
ended ; 
Silent the stars mount their heavenly 
throne, 
Smiling fond envy in rays softly splendid, 
As the glad father returns to his own. 
— Christopher Bannister. 

TTERE'S to my good chum, dear Dad, 
"* with all the love of your daughter, 
Dad's dear! 

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"DROWN eyes, 

*~* Straight nose, 
Dirt pies, 

Rumpled clothes; 

Torn books, 

Spoilt toys; 
Arch looks, 

Unlike a boy's; 

Little rages, 
Obvious arts; 

(Three her age is), 
Cakes, tarts; 

Falling down 

Off chairs; 
Breaking crown 

Down stairs; 

Catching flies 
On the pane ; 

Deep sighs — 
Cause not plain; 

Bribing you 

With kisses 
For a few 

Farthing blisses; 




Wide awake, 
As you hear — 



'Mercy's sake, 
Quiet, dear!' 

New shoes, 

New frock; 
Vague views 

Of what's o'clock 

When it's time 
To go to bed, 

And scorn sublime 
For what is said; 

Folded hands 
Saying prayers, 

Understands 
Not, nor cares; 

Thinks it odd, 

Smiles away; 
Yet may God 

Hear her pray! 

Bedgown white, 

Kiss Dolly; 
Good-night ! — 

That's Polly. 



Fast asleep 
As you see; 

Heaven keep 
My girl for me! 

William Brighty Rands. 
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rpHOU happy, happy elf! 
-*• (But stop, — first let me kiss away that 







tear!) 
Thou tiny image of myself ! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite, 
With spirits feather-light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by 

sin, — 
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) 



Thou enviable being! 

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky fore- 
seeing, 
Play on, play on, 
My elfin John! 

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, — 

(I knew so many cakes would make him 
sick!) 

With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, 

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic 
brisk, 

With many a lamb-like frisk! 

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your 
gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose! 

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 

nose!) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; — 
(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above!) 

— Thomas Hood. 
17 












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T GROAN as I put out 
-*• My nets on the say, 
To hear the little girshas shout, 
Dancin' among the spray, 

Ochone! the childer pass 
An' lave us to our grief; 

The stranger took my little lass 
At the fall o' the loaf. 

Why would you go so fast 
With him you never knew? 

In all the throuble that is past 
I never frowned on you. 

The light o' my old eyes, 
The comfort of my heart ! — 

Waitin' for me your mother lies 
In blessed Innishart. . . . 






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Ochone! my thoughts are wild: 

But little blame I say; 
An ould man hungerin' for his child, 

Fishin' the livelong day. 

You will not run again, 

Laughin' to see me land. 
Oh, what was pain and throuble then, 

Holdin' your little hand? 



Or when your head let fall 
Its soft curls on my breast? 
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Why do the childher grow at all 
To love the stranger best? 

— Katharine Tynan-Hinkson. 

QWEET, they say, the music that the 
^ seraph Israfel 

Strikes from his heart's strings in the sun, 
Sweeter far the laughter that melodiously 
fell 

From your lips, my bright-eyed little one! 

Call it bubbling spirit out of nature's deep, 

Or the young soul's thanksgiving and 

prayer, 

Call it light made audible for mother's heart 

to keep, 

Her one recompense from crowning care. 

Call it what one will, yet it is more than 
words can say: 
Hope's own voice made true, and Truth's 
made glad, 
Love's most perfect symphony, and Life's 
divinest lay, 
Heaven's voice proclaiming, 'Be not sad I' 

Blessed child, your laughter, will it change 
with changing years? 
Pray its innocence may ne'er depart, 
Let it be a symbol, christened by most tender 
tears, 
Of the pure white goodness of your heart! 

— Donald Robertson. 
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1JI THAT I shall leave thee none can tell, 

* * But all shall say I wish thee well; 
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 
Both bodily and ghostly health : 
Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee, 
So much of either may undo thee. 
I wish thee learning, not for show, 
Enough for to instruct, and know. 
I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 
Thy father's fortunes, and his places. 
I wish thee friends, and one at court, 
Not to build on, but support; 
To keep thee, not from doing many 
Oppressions, but from suffering any. 
I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 
Nor lazy, nor contentious days; 
And when thy soul and body part, 
As innocent as now thou art. 
—Richard Corbet, 'A Father's Blessing.' 




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TV/fYRIADS of stars, but only one sun; 
^ -"■ many friends, but only one father. 
Yet, even as the sun's bright kindliness is 
taken quite as a matter of course in fair 
weather, so is a father's glowing affection. 
It is only when the weariness of a wet week 
comes upon us that we feel to the full what 
the splendor of the sun means to us ; and too 
often it is not until a father is long absent 
that his children come to understand the full 
significance of his daily life amongst them. 
—Rowena Adelaide Stone. 
20 



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\ \ 7ERE I a poet, my love for my father 

* * would flow into song; yet, even then, 
I could not tell much about my father, for 
a father is one of the wonderful things I 
cannot quite comprehend. There seems to 
me something mysterious about him, some- 
thing that is not heard in his voice, though 
at times it whispers when he is silent. I 
think, most of all, it is something of which 
he is unconscious — an expression of his face. 
On the faces of other girls' fathers I have 
noticed the same indefinably wistful combi- 
nation of love, joy, pride — and pain. It is 
the pain I do not comprehend; perhaps I 
might if I could see the side of fathers' 
hearts which is turned within: the secret I 
seek is not written on the side they turn to- 
ward their children. If fathers suffer, they 
never tell, for they hide their hurts as war- 
riors hide their wounds. 

— Rena Albertyn Smith. 

\ K 7"ITH her blithe smile and gleam of 

* * golden hair, 

She like a candle lit her father's hearth, 
Making the old man glad. 

— Alexander Smith. 



rriHOU art the framer of my nobler be- 
A ing; 

Nor does there live one virtue in my soul, 
One honorable hope, but calls thee father. 
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

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rpHE bitterest and the gladdest hour it 
-*- was! 

I stood at the stair's foot and heard your cry 
Ring through the house. Upon the slant- 
ing glass 
The setting sun made splendor, and I 

watched 
Him sink with eyes which nothing saw. 

Again, 
A moment's space the chamber-door un- 
latched 
Let out your moaning, and I bitterly 
Bowed down and trembled at your voice of 

pain. 
Eternity seemed crowded in that hour; 
All thought and passion, faculty and power, 
Was quickened and intense ; the veil of gross 
And faulty apprehension was withdrawn, 
And left the naked heaven of infinite things 
Close to me, like a throbbing heart. More 

close 
I felt thy spirit, and I cried, "What now 
If she be passing out on angel's wings?" 
Just then the sun sank to his other dawn, 
And as his rim burned down in final glow, 
I heard a new voice in the house, the cry 
Of the new-born, whose kindling human 

light 
Rose on our lives, and, please God, by-and- 

by 

Shall shine far out athwart the world's dark 
night. — William James Dawson. 
22 














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/^OMES Little Lady, a book in hand, 
^- / A Light in her eyes that I un- 
derstand, 
And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze 
That sweeps across the uncharted seas. 
She gives me the book, and the word of 

praise 
A ton of critical thought outweighs. 
'I've finished it, daddie!' A sigh thereat. 
'Are there any more books in the world like 

that?' 

No, Little Lady. I grieve to say 
That of all the books in the world to-day 
There's not another that's quite the same 
As this magic book with the magic name. 
Volumes there be that are pure delight, 
Ancient and yellowed, or new and bright ; 
But — little and thin, or big and fat — 
There are no more books in the world like 
that. 

And what, Little Lady, would I not give 

For the wonderful world in which you live ! 

What have I garnered half as true 

As the tales Titania whispers you? 

Ah, late we learn that the only truth 

Was that which we found in the Book of 

Youth. 
Profitless others, and stale, and fat — 
There are no more books in the world like 

that. 
— Bert Leston Taylor: ' Treasure Island.' 

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A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 
■**' Singing, dancing to itself, 
A fairy thing with red round cheeks 
That always finds, and never seeks, 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 
Must needs express his love's excess 
With words of unmeant bitterness. 

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

HEN Dad an' Maw was married in the 
days long gone an' dead, 
The neighbors sorter run the house — Mis' 
Grundy was the law; 
When Dad felt kinder bilious, the ol' wood- 
pile in the shed 
Was what he mostly needed, an' he uster 
go an' saw; 
An' Maw kep' busy knittin', makin' clo'es 
an' bakin' pies, 
An' Sis helped with the dishes an' the 
baby an' the rest, 
An' Bub — that 's me — did chorin', early bed 
an' early rise; 
The family was sleepin' when the sun was 
in the west. 

I'm Daddy of a family now, built on a 
diff'runt plan: 
A gas bill once a month, instead o' that 
ol' hickory pile; 
24 




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Now when I wanter exercise, I take the 
hired man — 
He does me for a caddy — an' I play my 
golf in style; 
An' Mother? She 'n' the hired help jest 
tuck th' aut'mobile; 
An' Sister whacks at tenuis — tendin' 
Baby ain't her song ; 
An' Brother rows an' kicks an' swims, his 
muscles is like steel — 
They ain't no chores to keep him down — 
he's too be jiggered strong! 

I dunno what our Baby does, but sorter 
'spect the nurse 
Gets him to sprint with policemen when 
she takes him out to walk — 
He certainly is lookin' 's if he oughter come 
in firs', 
A-singin' coon songs long before he's old 
enough to talk. 
Them good ol' times wan't none too good — ■ 
they knew no better then, 
To work was pious, an' 't was always 
wickedness to play; 
But now our women's stronger an' we're 
better lookin' men, 
An' boys an' girls grow bigger — an' I'm 
glad to see the day! 

— Alexander Mac Lean. 






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ril AKE my head on your shoulder, Daddy, 
**■ Turn your face to the west ; 
It is just the hour when the sky turns gold, 

The hour that mother loves best. 
The day has been long without you, Daddy, 

You've been such a while away, 
And now you're as tired of your work, 
Daddy, 

As I am tired of my play; 
But I've got you and you've got me, 

So everything seems right; 
I wonder if mother is thinking of us, 

Because it's my birthday night. 

Why do your big tears fall, Daddy? 

Mother's not far away; 
I often seem to hear her voice 

Falling across my play; 
And it sometimes makes me cry, Daddy, 

To think it 's none of it true, 
,Till I fall asleep to dream, Daddy, 

Of home, and mother, and you; 
For I've got you and you've got me, 

So everything may go ; 
We're all the world to each other, Daddy; 

Dear mother told me so. 








I'm sometimes afraid to think, Daddy, 

When I am big like you, 
And you are old and grey, Daddy, 

What you and I would do 



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If when we got up to Heaven, 

And mother was waiting there, 
She shouldn't remember the two she left, 

So sad and lonely here! 
But year by year still sees no change, 

And so 'twill all be right, 
We shall always meet her in our dreams, 

Daddy, dear Daddy, good-night. 

— Mary Mark-Lemon. 

\ FATHER who understands human 
^** nature can turn out an imitation parson 
from a boy whom the Lord intended to go 
on the Board of Trade. But on general 
principles it's best to let your boy follow his 
bent, even if it leads him into the wheat pit. 

While a young fellow will consult his 
father about buying a horse, he's cocksure 
of himself when it comes to picking a wife. 

I want to say right here that I don't pro- 
pose to be an ancestor until after I'm dead. 

You worry over Charlie at college because 
he's a little wild, and he writes you that he's 
been elected president of the Y. M. C. A. ; 
and you worry over William because he's so 
pious that you're afraid he's going to throw 
up everything and go to China as a mission- 
ary, and he draws on you for a hundred. 
Worrying is the one game in which, if you 
guess right, you don't get any satisfaction 
out of your smartness. 

— George Horace Lorimer. 
27 



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TV/FY little son, who looked from thought- 

^ ■*• ful eyes 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up 

wise, 
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 
I struck him, and dismissed 
With hard words and unkissed, 
His mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder 

sleep, 
I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep, 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet. 
And I, with moan, 
Kissing away his tears, left others of my 

own; 
For, on a table drawn beside his head, 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 
And two French copper coins, ranged there 

with careful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I prayed 
To God, I wept, and said: 
'Ah, when at last we lie with tranced 

breath, 
Not vexing Thee in death, 
And Thou rememberest of what toys 

28 



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We made our joys, 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, 

Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the 

clay, 
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
"I will be sorry for their childishness." ' 

— Coventry Patmore. 



eyes! 



— William Wordsworth. 




LOOK how he laughs and stretches out 
his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father: while his little form 
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of 

pain! 
The childless cherubs might well envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent. 

— Lord Byron. 

A FATHER is a banker given by na- 
***• ture. — Montaigne. 

29 







T) EHOLD the child among his new-born 
*~* blisses, 



A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 

DO lies, . uQ 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's 




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'VTOT only women dream the future's 

±* child 

Or children, though such deep desire they 

bear 
For all the rich rewards of motherhood, 
They smile in travail; though each girl un- 

grown 
Who sings her dolls uncertain lullabies 
Sees infant faces, feels soft arms that cling, 
Hears deep within the nursery of her heart 
A medley of small mirth adorable, 
And, as she grows, mothers all things she 

loves, 
Lacking the little head against her breast 
And yearning for it, when she cannot know 
Wherefore she yearns. Yet sometimes to a 

man, 
Roughest and sternest though he be of men, 
Shocked into strength and pondering, from 

his young 
Exuberance and easy joy, there comes 
A longing that convulses all his soul; 
And, standing in the wind against some 

dawn's 
Prospect of racing cloud and lightening sky, 
Or hard-beset in battle with the world 
Deep in the city's stridence, or at pause 
Before some new-discovered truth of life, 
Unwittingly his hands go out to touch, 
Hold off, and scan the youth of him that 

was, 
Thrill to that brighter you it is decreed 

30 






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Each father shall inherit from his son. 
And, if his hands grope blindly, so his heart, 
To hear a young voice at his shoulder speak, 
Know young, elastic strides beside his own, 
Resolve the problems of an unsullied heart 
Flaming to his for counsel. I, scarce grown 
Into my manhood, hovering, hovering still 
Over my boyhood (as the gravest, oldest 
Of men doth yet, or is no man of men) , 
Felt my heart tense, and but a noon ago 
Strove in quick torture — for no woman's 

arms, 
No woman's eyes, but for a questioning 

voice 
Beside me, and a sturdy little step 
In rhythm with mine. A phantom face 

looked up, 
Trusting, round-eyed, alive with curious 

joy; 

And all my being yearned : My son! My 
son! 

— William Rose Benet. 









A ND has the earth lost its so spacious 
**• round, 

The sky, its blue circumference above, 
That in this little chamber there is found 
Both earth and heaven — my universe of 

love? 
All that my God can give me or remove, 
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death, 
Sweet that in this small compass I behoove 

31 




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To live their living, and to breathe their 

breath! 
Almost I wish, that with one common sigh, 
We might resign all mundane care and 

strife ; 
And seek together that transcendent sky, 
Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, 

Wife, 
Together pant in everlasting life! 

— Thomas Hood. 

ID 



THE Psalms of David! Do they sing 
them yet 
In the old church that crowns the wood- 
crown hill, 
Within whose ancient pulpit, high uplifted, 
I seem to see my youthful father 
still? . . . 

A little child, I see myself, awe-stricken, 
Watching the people streaming down the 
aisle, 
Whose lengthening vista seemed to me un- 
ending, 
And the grand psalm-tune rose and fell 
the while. . . . 



This was the day a thought of daring thrilled 
me: 
When the last Psalm swelled on the throb- 
bing air, 

32 





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The pew door opened, down the broad aisle 
speeding, 
I climbed with haste the lofty pulpit stair. 

The great unknown it was that I was dar- 
ing; 
But yet I thought to gain my father's 
knee. 
The top step reached: Oh, horror and un- 
doing! 
I beat upon a door too high for me! 

Tempest of tears and sobs my bosom swell- 
ing, 
I was afraid, and all the world grew dim ; 
My dear young father, while he still was 
praying, 
Opened the door and drew me in to him. 

Safe, safe, beside him with a heart exulting, 
The peace of Heaven filled my childish 
breast ; 
Holding his hand, concealed from all be- 
holders, 
I clasped his knees, with all my soul at 
rest. 

Dear father, if I climb at last to Heaven 
And beat upon a door too high for me, 
Will it not be thy hand which gently opens 
That door, and clasps the child so dear to 
thee? — Frances Ekin Allison. 
33 






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T WRITE. He sits beside my chair, 

And scribbles, too, in hushed delight; 
He dips his pen in charmed air: 
What is it he pretends to write? 

He toils and toils; the paper gives 

No clue to aught he thinks. What then? 

His little heart is glad; he lives 
The poems that he cannot pen. 

Strange fancies throng that baby brain. 

What grave sweet looks! What earnest 
eyes! 
He stops — reflects — and now again 

His unrecording pen he plies. 

It seems a satire on myself: 

These dreamy nothings scrawled in air, 
This thought, this work! O tricksy elf, 

Wouldst drive thy father to despair? 

Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind 
Persists in hoping; schemes and strives 

That there may linger with our kind 
Some little record of our lives. 

Beneath his rock i' the early world 

Smiling the naked hunter lay, 
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled, 

The urus which he made his prey. 

Like him I strive in hope my rhymes 
May keep my name a little while: 

34 









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O child, who knows how many times 
We two have made the angels smile? 

— William Canton. 

QJMALL traveller from an unknown shore, 
^ By mortal eye ne'er seen before, 

To you, good morrow. 
You are as fair a little dame 
As ever from a glad world came 

To one of sorrow. 

Perhaps you really wished to come, 
But now you are so far from home 

Repent the trial. 
What ! did you leave celestial bliss 
To bless us with a daughter's kiss? 

What self-denial! 

The Earth is full of lovely things, 
And if at first you miss your wings, 

You'll soon forget them; 
And others, of a rarer kind, 
Will grow upon your tender mind — 

If you will let them — ■ 

Until you find that your exchange 

Of Heaven for earth expands your range 

Even as a flyer, 
And that your mother, you, and I, 
If we do what we should, may fly 
Than angels higher. 

— Cosmo Morikhouse. 
35 




















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BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
*** When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 



I hear in the chamber above me. 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

36 








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Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all? 

I have you fast in the fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you for ever, 

Yes, for ever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And molder in dust away ! 

— Henry Wadsworih Longfellow. 

QOME feelings are to mortals given, 

^ With less of earth in them than heaven : 

And if there be a humari tear 

From passion's dross refined and clear, 

A tear so limpid and so meek 

It would not stain an angel's cheek, 

'Tis that which pious fathers shed 

Upon a duteous daughter's head. 

— Sir Walter Scott. 

V\7E think our fathers fools, so wise we 
* * grow; 

Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. 

— Alexander Pope. 
37 





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I'VE got a letter, parson, from my 

* 'way out west, 

An' my ol* heart is heavy as an anvil in my 

breast, 
To think the boy whose futur' I had once so 

proudly planned 
Should wander from the path o' right an' 

come to sich an end. 

His letters come so seldom that we somehow 
sort o' knowed 

That Billy was a-trampin' in a mighty rocky 
road, 

But never once imagined he would bow my 
head in shame 

An' in the dust 'd waller his ol' daddy's hon- 
ored name. 

He writes from out in Denver, an' the let- 

ter's mighty short — 
I just cain't tell his mother; it 'd break her 

poor ol' heart. 
An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break 

the news to her: 
Bill's in the legislatur', but he doesn't say 

what fur. — James Barton Adams. 






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npHIS is the time of the year, my boys 
**• When we kids get out and make a noise 
To see our daddies fall in line 
And act like us (!) in a baseball nine. 

38 






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Just see Bill's father and his nerve- 
He can't come near the simplest curve! 
And there's Jim's dad so lean and thin — 
He don't know if he's out or in! 

Just see Tom's pa the ground uproot! 

See Harry's dodging at a shoot! 

See, waving wildly in the air, 

The strikes that should be home runs there! 

And when at last the game is done, 
It puts an end to us kids' fun. 
We help our daddies, one and all, 
Who thought they still could play baseball. 

— Alexander MacLean. 

t\JlTHY did you do it?' demanded an 
* * angry father from a small son who 
had just broken an old and valuable vase. 
'I guess it was just because I am a little 
boy,' answered the child. And could there 
have been a more truthful or a more disarm- 
ing answer? What other, except that we 
lose our childhood, have we to offer the 
Father of All for our human folly? 

—George Shattuck. 

'/^EORGIE, that little boy over yon- 
^* der hasn't any daddy. Wouldn't you 
like to give him your white rabbit?' — 
1 Can't I give him my daddy?' 

— London Punch. 
39 









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HPHERE came to port last Sunday night 
A The queerest little craft, 
Without an inch of rigging on ; 

I looked and looked — and laughed! 
It seemed so curious that she 

Should cross the Unknown water, 
And moor herself within my room — 

My daughter! O my daughter! 

Yet by these presents witness all 

She's welcome fifty times, 
And comes consigned in hope and love — 

And common-meter rhymes. 
She has no manifest but this; 

No flag flies o'er the water; 
She's too new for the British Lloyds — 

My daughter! O my daughter! 

Ring out, wild bells — and tame ones too; 

Ring out the lover's moon; 
Ring in the little worsted socks, 

Ring in the bib and spoon. 
Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse, 

Ring in the milk and water. 
Away with paper, pen, and ink — 

My daughter! O my daughter! 

— George Washington Cable. 



HHHE Bible tells sluggards to go to the 
-■* ant; but in these days most of them 
go to their daddies. 

- — Christopher Bannister. 
40 



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TT1IS bedtime; say your hymn, and bid 
*• 'Good-night; 
God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones 

all.' 
Your half -shut eyes beneath your eyelids 

fall, 
Another minute, you will shut them quite. 
Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, 
And tuck you up, although you are so 

tall! 
What will you give me, sleepy one, and 

call 
My wages, if I settle you all right? 

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, 
I drew her little feet within my hand, 
Her rosy palms were joined in trustful 
bliss, 
Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and 
warm 
She nestled to me, and by Love's com- 
mand, 
Paid me my precious wages, 'Baby's 
Kiss.' — Francis, Earl of Rosslyn. 

IN the mid- watches of the winter night 
Lit with cheery lamp and hearth aglow 
As goodly books their best before me 

strow, 
And all is still as my fond thoughts are 
bright, 
Till, sudden, soundeth laughter, boyish, 
light! 

41 














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Too brief for half his glee the day's quick 
flow, 

So doth my son on slumberous hours be- 
stow 

His bubbling mirth, and laugh to the 
frosty night. 

My merry boy! God give thee books good 
store; 

A holy love for them, to guide thy wit 

Straight to their soul; the gladness — all 
of it— 
Of him who readeth late o' nights ; nor more 

Of grief than this, but such sweet tender- 
ness 

As when thy son, some night, laughs his 
caress. — Wallace Rice. 

LOOK upon the little frame 
* As helpless on my arm it lies: 
Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name, 
God's earliest name in Paradise. 

Like Him, creator too I stand: 

His power and mystery seem more near; 
Thou giv'st me honor in the land, 

And giv'st my life duration here. 

This is the blessing and the prayer 
A father's sacred place demands: 
Ordain me, darling, for thy care, 

And lead me with thy helpless hands. 

— Bayard Taylor. 
42 

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A KIND winsome wifie, 
** *• A clean cantie hame, 
An' smilin' sweet babies, 
To lisp the dear name; 
Wi' plenty of labor, 

An' health to endure, 
Make time to row round ay 
The ae happy hour. 

— Alexander Laing. 

AULD Daddy Darkness creeps frae his 
hole, 
Black as a blackamoor, blind as a mole: 
Stir the fire until it lowes, let the bairnie 

sit, 
Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yet. 

See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, 
See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht ; 
Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', 
An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far 
awa\ 

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, 
Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mith- 

er's breast, 
Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', 
For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'. 

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae 

oor waes, 
He comes when the bairnies are gettin aff 

their claes; 

43 



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To cover them so cosy, an' bring bonny- 
dreams, 

So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he 
seems. 

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy 

then ; 
He's in below the bed-claes, to cuddle ye 

he's fain; 
Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep an' dream yer 

fill, 
Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' 

owre the hill. — James Ferguson. 

FT! HIS is not only one man, this the father 
*• of those who shall be fathers in their 

turns ; 
In him the start of populous states and rich 

republics, 
Of him countless and immortal lives with 
countless embodiments and enjoy- 
ments. — Walt Whitman. 










NEVER knew father, how crooked and 
A deformed soever his son were, that would 
either altogether cast him off, or not ac- 
knowledge him for his own; and yet (unless 
he be merely besotted or blinded in his af- 
fection) it may not be said but he plainly 
perceiveth his defects, and hath a feeling of 
his imperfections. But so it is, he is his 
own. — Montaigne. 

44 






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A MONGST other things my father had 
*^*' especially been persuaded to make me 
taste and apprehend the fruits of duty and 
science by an unforced kind of will and of 
mine own choice, and without any compul- 
sion or rigor to bring me up in all mildness 
and liberty; yea, with such kind of super- 
stition that, whereas some are of opinion 
that suddenly to awaken young children, 
and as it were by violence to startle and 
fright them out of their deep sleep in a 
morning (wherein they are more heavy and 
deeper plunged than we) doth greatly trou- 
ble and distemper their brains, he would 
every morning cause me to be awakened by 
the sound of some musical instrument. 
This example may serve to judge of the 
rest; as also to commend the judgment and 
tender affection of so careful and loving a 
father: who is not to be blamed, though he 
reaped not the fruits answerable to his ex- 
quisite toil and painful fertilizing. 

— Montaigne. 

/^ORANUS the Spaniard, at a table at 
^-^ dinner fell into an extolling his own 
father, saying, 'If he could have wished of 
God, he could not have chosen amongst men 
a better father.' — Lord Bacon. 





[Fa boy's best friend is his mother, why is 
**• not a girl's best friend her father? 







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77o 









A S thou to thy father, so thy son to thee. 
*** — Christopher Bannister. 



'VTEARS an' years ago, when I 
* Was just a little lad, 
An' after school hours used to work 

Around the farm with Dad, 
I used to be so wearied out 

When eventide was come 
That I got kind o' anxious-like 

About the journey home; 
But Dad, he used to lead the way 
An' once-'n-a-while turn round an' say, 

So cheerin'-like, so tender, "Come! 

Come on, my son; you're nearly home!" 

That allers used to help me some; 

An' so I followed father home. 



I'm old an' grey an' feeble now, 

An' trimbly at the knee, 
But life seems jest the same to-day 

As then it seemed to me, 
For I am still so wearied out 

When eventide is come, 
An' still get kind o' anxious-like 

About the journey home; 
But still my Father leads the way, 
An' once-'n-a-while I hear him say, 

So cheerin'-like, so tender, "Come! 

Come on, my son, you're nearly home!" 
An', same as then, that helps me some; 

An' so I'm following Father home. 

46 

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T^ATHER, now my prayer is said, 
*■■ Lay your hand upon my head ! 
Pleasures pass from day to day, 
But I know that love will stay. 

While I sleep it will be near; 
I shall wake and find it here; 
I shall feel it in the air, 
When I say my morning prayer. 

And when things are sad or wrong, 
Then I know that love is strong; 
When I ache or when I weep, 
Then I know that love is deep. 

Love is old and love is new, 
You love me and I love you; 
And the Lord who made it thus, 
Did it in His love for us. 

— William Brighty Rands. 

OING them upon the sunny hills, 
^ When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 
Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's roar, 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

Teach them your children round the hearth 
When evening fires burn clear, 

47 






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And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer. 
So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam, 
Call back the hearts which once it stirred 

To childhood's happy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band 

Shall breathe their names again; 
The heathery heights in vision rise, 

Where, like the stag, they roved. 
Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs your fathers loved! 

— Felicia Dorothea He-mans. 

ROUNDS! I was never so bethumped 
*^* with words 

Since first I called my brother's father dad. 

— William Shakespeare. 

T> E kind to thy father, for when thou wert 
*** young, 

Who loved thee so fondly as he? 
He caught the first accents that fell from 
thy tongue, 
And joined in thy innocent glee. 
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, 

His locks intermingled with grey; 
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and 
bold; 
Thy father is passing away. 

48 















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rpHE joys of parents are secret; and so 
-*• are their griefs and fears; they can- 
not utter the one, or they will not utter the 
other. Children sweeten labors; but they 
make misfortunes more bitter ; they increase 
the cares of life, but they mitigate the re- 
membrance of death. — Lord Bacon. 

A WAY! let naught to love displeasing, 
*** My Winif reda, move your care ; 
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 
No mighty treasures we possess; 

We'll find within our pittance plenty, 
And be content without excess. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We'll hand in hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell- 
ing, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly cling! 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! 

And when with envy time transported 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

You'll in your girls again be courted, 
And I'll go wooing in my boys! 

49 





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lVyjY wife and child, come close to me, 
*■ -■- The world to us is a stormy sea: 

With your hands in mine, 

If your eyes but shine, 
I care not how wild the storm may be. 

For the fiercest wind that ever blew 
Is nothing to me, so I shelter you; 

No warmth do I lack, 

For the howl at my back 
Sings down to my heart, 'Man bold and 
true!' 

A pleasant sail, my child, my wife, 
O'er a pleasant sea, to many is life; 

The wind blows warm, 

And they dread no storm, 
And wherever they go, kind friends are rife. 

But, wife and child, the love, the love 
That lifteth us to the saints above 

Could only have grown 

Where storms have blown 
The truth and strength of the heart to 
prove. — Ebenezer Jones. 

\ BUMPER, my boys ! to a grey-headed 
^*- pair, 
Who watched o'er my childhood with ten- 

derest care. 
God bless them, and keep them, and may 

they look down 
On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, 
or frown. — James Kirke Paulding. 
50 






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/"^HARLES! my slow heart was only sad, 
^ -/ when first 

I scanned that face of feeble infancy: 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
All I had been, and all my child might 
be! 
But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 
And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
Bent o'er its features with a tearful 
smile) 
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most 
warm 
Impressed a father's kiss: and all be- 
guiled 
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 

'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! 
So for the mother's sake the child was dear, 
And dearer was the mother for the child. 
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

LEARN to see with my old clouding 
* eyes 

My own young being thrilling as of yore ; 
I pluck forth from the surge on Lethe's 

shore 
Some wave-worn treasure, with new- 
winged surprise; 
Finding my little sons so wondrous wise 
They conjure back through Memory's 

long-locked door 
Lovely forgotten dreams; aye, they do 
more — 

51 




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I gain a hope the Boy in me ne'er 
dies! 

And griefs that come? Surely, such griefs 
were known 
To him, my father, quite unguessed by me 
Till now, when my lads send me sym- 
pathy; 
His well-borne burden mine, I make atone, 
Thus only, for old faults — even then I 

see 
His and all fathers' blessing made my 
own! — Wallace Rice. 

"VTEARS bring fresh links to bind us, 
■*• wife, — young voices that we hear, 
Young faces round our fire that make their 

mother's yet more dear, 
Young loving hearts, your care each day 

makes yet more like to you, 
More like the loving heart made mine when 

this old ring was new. 

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and 

daughters to grow old, 
We know His goodness will not let your 

heart or mine grow cold; 
Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've 

still shown to you, 
And mine in yours all they have have seen 

since this old ring was new. 

— William Cox Bennett. 
52 








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F> OYS, I've been out in the clearin 
*~* Choppin' up some second-growth, 
And, I swan, it's mighty cheerin' 
When the frost is interferin' 
With your seem' and your hearin' 
And your nachral f eelin's, both, 
To hear your sister's voice a-callin': 
"Supper, dad; the boys is all in." 

Then I drop my axe and listen, 

Makin' out I didn't hear, 
For I knew a voice like this'n, 
Which for years I've been a-missin', 
And I seem to catch the glisten 

Of two girlish eyes — it's queer, 
But your ma lives in your sister 
As she was when first I kissed her. 

You remember her as turnin' 

Thirty-odd, and all wore out; 
But them days when we was burnin' 
Walnut forewood and earnin' 
The old farm jest sets me yearnin' 
That the years could turn about 
And your ma would call me to her 
From the days when first I knew her. 

Seems to me I didn't treat her 

With the care I should have took ; 
Such a faithful wife, and neater 
Than a hummin'-bird, and sweeter — 

53 









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God forgive me! — if I meet her 

There, she'll wear a lovin' look 
And forgive me — she'll be callin', 
"Come in, dad, the night is fallin'!" 

— Ray Clarke Rose. 




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< A WAKE, awake, my little boy! 
"**• Thou wast thy mother's only joy. 
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? 
O wake! thy father doth thee keep.' 

'Oh, what land is the land of dreams? 
What are its mountains and what are its 
dreams? 

father ! I saw my mother there, 
Among the lilies by waters fair.' 

'Dear child! I also by pleasant streams 
Have wandered all night in the land of 

dreams ; 
But, calm and warm the waters wide, 

1 could not get to the other side.' 

'Father, O father! what do we here 
In this land of unbelief and fear? 
The land of dreams is better far, 
Above the light of the morning star.' 

— William Blake. 

TTAPPY is the man who was 'Sonny' to 
** ■*• his father and is 'Daddy' to his sons. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 
54 















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MY father loved the patient angler's art; 



And many a summer day, from early 
morn 
To latest evening, by some streamlet's side 
We two have tarried; strange companion- 

- ship ! 
A sad and silent man; a joyous child — 
Yet were those days, as I recall them now, 
Supremely happy. Silent though he was, 
My father's eyes were often on his child 
Tenderly eloquent — and his few words 
Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 
Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts 
With childish question. But I learnt at last, 
Learnt intuitively to hold my peace 
When the dark hour was on him, and deep 

sighs 
Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then 
I crept a little closer to his side, 
And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 
Laid my cheek softly; till the simple wile 
Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned 
With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook 

his head, 
Stooping toward me: So I reached at last 
Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it 

close, 
Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. 
— Caroline Bowles Southey. 




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NE father is more than a hundred 
schoolmasters. — Proverb. 

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"IX THEN you stand where I stand, with 
* * your face to the west, 
With your boys, like my boys, half a 
dozen or more, 
With your wife like your mother and, save 
her, the best, 

Be you blest in them all, as your father 

before. 
May your joys be like mine, and your sons 

be like you, 
All a father and mother could wish them 

to be, 
Their respect and their love prompting each 

one to do 
For the son I adore, as my boys have for 

me! 

When you stand where I stand, with your 
face to the west, 
With the valley far stretching in beauty 
below, 
May it look like a spot where the weary may 
rest 
And a happy old age be delighted to go. 
Being conscious of having your duties well 
done, 
May you meet with your boys on occa- 
sions like this, 
Every grace of the father enabling each son 
Early joys to renew, every sorrow dis- 
miss! — Edwin Oscar Gale. 
56 




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¥ HAVE two sons, wife — 
-* Two, and yet the same ; 
One his wild way runs, wife, 
Bringing us to shame. 
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and 

fights across the sea, 
The other is a little child who sits upon your 
knee. 

One is fierce and cold, wife, 

As the wayward deep; 
Him no arms could hold, wife, 
Him no breast could keep. 
He has tried our hearts for many a year, 

not broken them, for he 
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon 
your knee. 

One may fall in fight, wife — 

Is he not our son? 
Pray with all your might, wife, 
For the wayward one; 
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights 

across the sea, 
Because you love the little shade who smiles 
upon your knee. 

— Robert Buchanan. 







«* 



1 



A GES ago, Chryseis, lovely maiden, 
**' Went from the sacred ship that bore 

her home, 
Left it to all the fates wherewith 'twas laden, 

57 





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Walking four timid steps to welcome 
earth, 
Then at the fifth, light as Idalian foam, 
Running ashore, brimful of tender 
mirth, 

Ages ago. 






D 



Ages ago a father sad and stricken, 

Wailing the daughter ravished from his 
eyes, 
Mourned by the beach — his ancient pulses 
quicken ! 
Lovely Chryseis comes from out the 

ship .■ (La 

Slowly, until his reverend form she spies; 
Then to him hastily, glad, with trem- 
bling lip, 

Ages ago. 

Ages ago old Chryses clasped his daughter, 
Happy that she was his and not the 
King's. 
Smiling through tears beside that Asian 
water 
Lovely Chryseis, home at last, still 
stands. 
Many another bard some maiden sings — 
Dearer to me Chryseis on the sands, 
Ages ago. 

— Wallace Rice. 



I T is a wise child that knows his own 
* father. — Old Proverb. 

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'VE a letter from thy sire, 
* Baby mine, baby mine ; 
I could read and never tire, 
Baby mine, baby mine; 
He is sailing o'er the sea, 
He is coming home to me, 
He is coming back to thee, 
Baby mine! 

Oh, I long to see his face, 

Baby mine, baby mine; 
In his old accustomed place, 
Baby mine, baby mine; 
Like the rose of May in bloom, 
Like a star amid the gloom, 
Like the sunshine in the room, 
Baby mine. 

I'm so glad, I cannot sleep, 
Baby mine, baby mine; 
I'm so happy, I could weep, 
Baby mine, baby mine; 
He is sailing o'er the sea, 
He is coming home to me, 
He is coming back to thee, 
Baby mine! 
— Charles Mackey. 



ET fathers remember they once were 
*~* sons, and sons learn their fathers once 
were boys, and it will be easier for both. 

— Christopher Bannister. 
59 



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OTILL thine own its life retaineth — 
^ Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

And when thou would solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say, "Father 1" 
Though his care she must forgo? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is pressed, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had blessed! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more mayest see, 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

— Lord Byron. 





A FOOLISH son is the calamity of his 
•**• father. — The Proverbs of Solomon. 




/"OBLIGATIONS are universally defined 
^^ by the bonds of relation. Is such a man 
your father? Then it is implied that you 
are to take care of him, to give place to him 
in all things, to bear his rebukes, his chastise- 
ment. But if he be a bad father? Were 
you then related by any law of Nature to a 
good father? Nay, but simply to a father. 

— Epictetus. 
60 




T TE is old now, 

■* * And Time and Care have long ago 
Covered his locks with winter's snow, 
And lined his brow. 




His step is slow, 
Oft in his walk he stands to rest, 
With folded arms upon his breast, 

And head bent low. 

His eyes are dim, 
The world is fading from his sight, 
And flower and tree and sun and light 

Are naught to him. 

The past is his, 
And all day long his thoughts will roam, 
And weave again in fancy's loom 

Old memories. 




At night I hear 
His tottering footsteps cross the hall; 
Slowly and solemnly they fall 

Upon my ear. 

Some night, I know 
That I shall list for them in vain, 
That I shall never go again 

To kiss his brow. 

Perchance e'en now 
The Angel beckons him away; 

61 









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And I, O God, would have him stay 
With me below. 

I cannot weep. 
I watch him slipping from my side — 
Gliding upon life's ebbing tide 

To dreamless sleep. 

But tears unshed 
Scorch all the fibers of my heart. 
There will be none to soothe the smart 

When he is dead. 

O God! I cry, 
Spare him to me! He is my all! 
Or bid thine Angel speed to call 

Me too, to die ! 

— Annie Murgatroyd. 

npHE parent begins with an imperfect no- 
*• tion of the child's character, formed in 
early years or during the equinoctial gales 
of youth; to this he adheres, noting only 
the facts which suit with his preconception. 
— Robert Louis Stevenson. 

4 AA/ rouLDNT you like t0 come and 

* * live with me, and be my little boy?' 
asked a kindly man of a little lad. 'Oh, no, 
sir,' said the urchin promptly. 'Why not?' 
asked the other, amused. 'Because I have 
such a nice daddy of my own,' was the con- 
vincing answer. 

62 



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rpHE poets have not dealt fairly with 
"■• their fathers. Quick to sing the feel- 
ings of fatherhood themselves, when that 
great blessing and happiness has been be- 
stowed upon them, it is only in the rarest 
instances that their sons in turn have sung 
of them. One grateful exception, almost 
the only one in English poetical literature, 
may be found in the touching sonnet of dedi- 
cation to his greater father, written by 
Hartley Coleridge, who has thus in a meas- 
ure repaid the sonnet his father made for 
him when he was first put in his arms as a 
baby, to be found elsewhere in this book, to- 
gether with the sonnet the younger Coleridge 
composed for his own child on his first birth 
anniversary. The lines to Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge follow: 

T^ATHER, and bard revered! to whom I 
* owe, 
Whate'er it be, my little art of numbers, 
Thou, in thy night-watch o'er my cradled 

slumbers, 
Didst meditate the verse that lives to show 
(And long may live, when we alike are low) , 
Thy prayer how ardent, and thy hope how 

strong, 
That I should learn of Nature's self the 

song, 
The lore which none but Nature's pupils 
know. 

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The prayer was heard: I 'wandered like a 
breeze,' 
By mountain brooks and solitary meres, 
And gathered there the shapes and fan- 
tasies 
Which, mixed with passions of my sadder 
years, 
Compose this book. If good therein there 

be, 
That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee. 

— Hartley Coleridge, 

TTUSBANDS should rather be fathers 
* -*• than lords. — Livy. 

^npWAS when the sea with awful roar 
**• A little bark assailed, 

And pallid fear's distracting power 
O'er each on board prevailed, 

Save one, the Captain's little child, 
Who steadfast viewed the storm; 

And cheerful, with composure smiled 
At danger's threatening form. 

'Why playing thus?' a sailor cried, 

'Whilst terrors overwhelm?' 
'Why yield to fear?' the boy replied; 

'My father's at the helm.' 

— Author Unknown. 




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T is a wise father that knows his own 
child. — William Shakespeare. 

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npHE Sun, sweet girl, hath run his year- 
•*• long race 
Through the vast nothing of the eternal 

sky 
Since the glad hearing of the first faint 

cry 
Announced a stranger from the unknown 
place 
Of unborn souls. How blank was then the 
face, 
How uninformed the weak light-shun- 
ning eye, 
That wept and saw not. Poor mortality 
Begins to mourn before it knows its case, 
Prophetic in its ignorance. But soon 
The hospitalities of earth engage 
The banished spirit in its new exile: — 
Pass some few changes of the fickle Moon, 
The merry babe has learned its mother's 

smile, 
Its father's frown, its nurse's mimic rage. 

— Hartley Coleridge. 

^'npWAS midnight; not a sound was 
A heard 

Within the' — 'Daddy, won't you look 
An' see my pooty 'ittle house? 

I wis' oo wouldn't read oor book — " 

'Within his palace where the king 
Upon his couch in anguish lay' — 

'Daddy, dad-dee, I wis oo'd come 
An' have a 'ittle tonty play — ' 

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'No gentle hand was there to bring 

The soothing draught, or cool his brow; 

His courtiers and his pages gone' — 
'Come, daddy, come; I want oo now.' 

Down goes the book with needless force, 
And with expression far from mild; 

With sullen air and clouded brow 
I seat myself beside my child. 



Her trusting little eyes of blue 

With mute surprise gaze in my face, 

As if in its expression stern 

Reproof and censure she could trace. 

Anon her little bosom heaves, 

Her rosy lips begin to curl, 
And with a quivering chin she sobs, 

'Daddy don't love his 'ittle girl!' 

King, palace, book, are all forgot; 

My arms are round my darling thrown — 
The thundercloud has burst, and lo! 

Tears fall and mingle with her own. 

















A SK your elders to tell you their histories. 
***• You will find incidents of heroism or pa- 
tience or disinterested love that will make 
your hearts glow, and records of time differ- 
ing from the present, calling for other stand- 
ards and powers; and this knowledge will 
make you understand them better. 

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TK7TIEN the black-lettered list to the 
^ * gods was presented 
(The list of what fate for each mortal in- 
tends), 
At the long string of ills a kind goddess re- 
lented, 
And slipped in three blessings — wife, 
children, and friends. 

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was 
cheated, 
For justice divine could not compass its 
ends ; 
The scheme of man's penance he swore was 
defeated, 
For earth becomes heaven with wife, chil- 
dren, and friends. 

— William Robert Spencer. 

"T\IMPLED scheeks, mit eyes off plue, 
*~* Mout' like it vas moisd mit dew, 
Und leetle teet' schust peekin' droo — 
Dot's der baby. 

Curly head, und full off glee, 
Drowsers all oudt at der knee — 
He vas been blayin' horse, you see — 
Dot's leedle Yawcob. 

Von hundord-sixty in der shade 
Der oder day vhen she vas weighed — 
She beats me soon, I vas afraid — 
Dot's mine Katrina. 
67 












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Barefooted head, und pooty stoudt, 

Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt, 

Fond off his bier und sauer-kraut — 

Dot's me himself. 

Von schmall young baby, full off fun, 
Von leedle prite-eyed, roguish son, 
Von frau to greet vhen vork is done — 
Dot's mine family. 

— Charles Follen Adams. 



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HEN Dad has worn his trousers out, 



* * They pass to brother John; 
Then mother trims them round about, 
And William puts them on. 

When William's legs too long have grown, 

The trousers fail to hide 'em, 
So Walter claims them for his own 

And stows himself inside 'em. 

Next Sam's fat legs they close invest 
And, when they won't stretch tighter, 

They're turned and shortened, washed and 
pressed 
And fixed on me — the writer. 

Ma works them into rugs and caps 
When I have burst the stitches; 

At doomsday we shall see (perhaps) 
The last of Dad's old breeches. 







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COMEWHAT apart from the village, 

^ and nearer the Basin of Minas, 

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest 
farmer of Grand-Pr6, 

Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, 
directing his household, 

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the 
pride of the village. 

Stalworth and stately in form was the man 
of seventy winters ; 

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is cov- 
ered with snowflakes; 

White as the snow were his locks, and his 
cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. 

Fair was she to behold, this maiden of seven- 
teen summers. 
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

TV/f Y daddy, all these many years 

* A Of childish doubt and manly fears, 

My steadfast friend has been; 
Unwearyingly guiding me 
Past threatening terrors up to be 
Free in my thought, in action free, 

At peace without, within. 

Yet three times in my little life 
He interposed, and ended strife; 

And curious now it is 
To think of all he's done for me 
And that these trifles now should be 
Most grateful in my memory 

Of all my memories. 

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Once, a mere child with sunny curls, 
Which I despised, as like a girl's, 

I locked the door, and sheared 
Each ringlet, most defiantly; 
And my good daddy smiled on me, 
And understood, and set me free 

From all the threats I feared. 

And once, when I came home in blood, 
Much battered, and besmeared with mud, 

And said I'd had a fight, 
My daddy asked me if I'd won, 
Patted my back, said, 'Good, my son!' 
And gave me praise for what I'd done 

In every one's despite. 

And once, when I was sure I'd die 
Before help came, so sick was I — 

A gardener's pipe the cause, 
My daddy understood again, 
And said that boys had to be men, 
And I'd make a good citizen 

When once I knew the laws. 

How many matters of more ill 
He helped me through — and helps me 
still— 
I have no space to say; 
But this I know, these three I name, 
Where I found kindness and not blame, 
And understanding saved me shame, 
Stand boldest out to-day. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 
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TIME and Change! — with hair as grey 
As was my sire's that winter day, 
How strange it seems, with so much gone 
Of life and love, to still live on! . . . 
We sped the time with stories old, 

B Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told. . . . 

Our father rode again his ride 
On Memphremagog's wooded side; 
Sat down again to moose and samp 
In trapper's hut and Indian camp; 
Again he heard the violin play 
Which led the village dance away, 
And mingled in its merry whirl 
The grandam and the laughing girl; 
Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 

Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; 
Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 

The low green prairie of the sea. 
We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 

And round the rocky Isle of Shoals 

The hake-broil on the driftwood coals; 
The chowder on the sand-beach made, 
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
With spoons of clamshell from the pot. 
— John Greenleaf Whittier. 

LEATHERS that wear rags 
X Shall make their children blind : 
But fathers that bear bags 
Shall see their children kind. — Shaks. 

71 





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npHOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
** Bright as thy mother's in their hue; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy, 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same! — 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A father guards thy birth my Boy! 

O 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy! 

— Lord Byron. 

TT behooves the father to be virtuous who 
desires his son to be more virtuous than 



he has been. 



— Plautus. 



72 



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IN afternoons, when Baby-Boy has had 
a splendid nap, 
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in 

nurse's lap, 
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold 

before my face, 
And cautiously and quietly I move about 

the place; 
Then with a cry I suddenly expose my face 

to view, 
And you should hear him laugh and cry 

when I say 'Booh!' 

Sometimes that rascal tries to make believe 
that he is scared, 

And, really, when I first began, he stared 
and stared and stared; 

And then his under-lip came out, and far- 
ther out it came, 

Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a 
cruel shame; 

But now what does that same wee toddling, 
lisping Baby do 

But laugh and kick its little heels when I 
say 'Booh!' 




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He laughs and kicks his little heels in rap- 
turous glee, and then 

In shrill despotic treble bids me 'Do it all 
aden !' 

And I — of course I do it; for, as his 

progenitor, .| 

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It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that 

I am for! 
And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that I 

shall rue 
The time when we are both too old to play 

the game of 'Booh!' 

— TZugene Field. 

C\R all estates that fall to man 
^-^ Since time began, 
I'm sure that I had rather 
Be a father, 

A laughing little son to see 

Upon my knee; 
I'd hug him, call him 'Laddie' — 

He'd say 'Daddie!' 

I'm sure I'd rather be the dad 

Of some such lad, 
For choice, and have my sonny, 

Than much money. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 






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TTOW often in my impetuous youth have 
A * I regarded the wishes of my dad as a 
wall between myself and some pleasure I 
coveted, only to be taught by experience 
that the barrier was the arm of a friend, 
thrown as a shield to guard a happiness 
higher than any mere pleasure. 

— Ruth Amy Sinclair. 
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fHPELL me, whither do they go, 
*■. All the Little Ones we know? 
They grow up before our eyes, 
And the fairy spirit flies. 
Time the Piper, pied and gay — 
Does he lure them all away? 
Do they follow after him, 
Over the horizon's brim? 

Daughter's growing fair to see, 
Slim and straight as popple tree, 
Still a child in heart and head, 
But — the fairy spirit's fled. 
As a fay at break of day, 
Little One has flown away, 
On the stroke of fairy bell — 
When and whither, who can tell? 

Still her childish fancies weave 
In the Land of Make-Believe; 
And her love of magic lore 
Is as avid as before. 
Dollies big and dollies small 
Still are at her beck and call. 
But, for all this pleasant play, 
Little One has gone away. 

Whither, whither have they flown, 
All the fays that we have known? 
To what faery lands forlorn 
On the sound of elfin horn? 
As she were a woodland sprite, 
Little One has vanished quite. 

75 










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Waves the wand of Oberon: 
Cock has crowed — the fay has gone! 
—Bert Leston Taylor. 

F> EHOLD, my lords, 

*^* Although the print be little, the whole 

matter 
And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, 
The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, 

the valley, 
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; 

his smiles, 
The very mould and frame of hand, nail, 

finger. — William Shakespeare. 

OU OQ 

rpOUCH us gently, Time! 

■*■ Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are We, 
Husband, wife, and children three — 

(One is lost, — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead.) 

Touch us gently, Time! 

We've not proud or soaring wings: 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are We, 
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time! 




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I HAVE met with fond mothers and fath- 
ers— 
They have bored me, ah, many's the 
time ! — 
There's Smith who full oft has repeated 

The tale of his youngling's first climb — 
Who has checked off his infant's cute say- 
ings 
And cackled anew o'er each whim, 
For Smith was the proudest of parents, 
And I learned about babies from him. 

There's Jones who came down in the morn- 

ing #R 

And cornered me oft in the car — 
With him there was only one topic, 

All others had sunk below par; 
His babble of babes was quite endless — 

My eyes would grow glassy and dim 
As he purled, like a Tennyson brooklet, 

And I learned about babies from him. 

But now sweet revenge is my portion; 

The Jones and Smith juniors are grown; 
While I — oh, the unbounded rapture! — 
Have a youngster, brand-new, of my 
own; 
All in vain are their efforts at dodging — 

I corner them now in great glee, 
And they suffer the things that I suffered 
As they learn about babies from me! 

— Arthur Chapman. 
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TTEERD 'bout what's happened? 
A * Why, o' course ye has; 
Baby up at Battenburg's, 
Hope it ain't the las'! 




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An' we hear a squawk! 







Doctor come at eight o'clock, 
Rig all splashed with clay; 

Dad a-trampin' up the hall: 
Skeery? I sh'd say! 



Kind o' still roun' the house, 

Folks on tiptoe walk 
Till the door is open 

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Doctor whispers suthin' — 

Daddy hollers, "No!" 
Doctor says, "Twelve-pounder!" 

Daddy whoops out, "Sho!" 

Daddy — happier 'n a clam! 

Mother doin' well; 
Baby up at Battenburg's, 

Haven't ye heerd tell? 

— Ben King. 

npHE pleasant face makes home happy. 
*■■ The tired father hurries as he nears the 
gate, thinking of its welcome. 

— Charles Buxton. 

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TTELP for your father is help for your- 
A A self. — Christopher Bannister. 

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QJUCH fun as we had one rainy day, 

^ When father was home and helped us 

play, 
And made a ship and hoisted sail, 
And crossed the sea in a fearful gale! 
But we hadn't sailed into London town, 
When captain and crew and vessel went 

down — 
Down, down in a jolly wreck, 
With the captain rolling under the deck. 
But he broke out again with a lion's roar, 
And we on two legs, he on four, 
Ran out of the parlor and up the stair 
And frightened mamma and the baby there. 
So mamma said she would be p'liceman now, 
And tried to 'rest us. She didn't know 

how! 
Then the lion laughed, and forgot to roar, 
Till we chased him out of the nursery door; 
And then he turned to a pony gay 
And carried us all on his back away — 
Whippity, lickity, kickity, ho! 
If we hadn't fun, then I don't know! 
Till we tumbled off, and he cantered on, 
Never stopping to see if his load had gone. 
And I couldn't tell any more than he 
Which was Charlie and which was me 
Or which was Towser, for, all in a mix, 
You'd think three people had turned to 

six, 
Till Towser's tail had caught in a door; 
He wouldn't hurrah with us any more; 

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And mamma came out the rumpus to quiet, 
And told us a story to break up the riot. 
— Hanna More Johnson. 

OEVEN lusty sons sate daily round the 

^ board 

Of Gold-Rill side; and when the hope had 

ceased 
Of other progeny, a daughter then 
Was given, the crowning glory of the whole ! 
The father — him at this unlooked for gift 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hearth, and from his open 

door, 
And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby, 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, and almost all that pass; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and 

drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born 

girl, 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 

— William Wordsworth. 

CHE'S always standing on the steps 
^ Just by the cottage door, 
Waiting to kiss me when I come 

Each night home from the store. 
Her eyes are like two glorious stars 

Dancing in heaven's own blue: 
'Papa,' she calls out like a bird, 

Ts looten out for you!' 
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rpHE dinner done, the lamp is lit, 
**• And in its mellow glow we sit 

And talk of matters, grave and gay, 

That went to make another day. 

Comes Little One, a book in hand, 

With this request, nay, this command 
(For who'd gainsay the little sprite), 

'Please, will you read to me to-night?' 

Read to you, Little One? Why, yes. 
What shall it be to-night? You guess 
You'd like to hear about the Bears — 
Their bowls of porridge, tables, chairs? 
Well, that you shall. . . . There! that 

tale's done! 
And now — you'd like another one? 
To-morrow evening, Curly Head. 
It's 'hass-pass seven.' Off to bed! 

So each night another story: 
Wicked dwarfs and giants gory; 
Dragons fierce and princes daring, 
Forth to fame and fortune faring; 
Wandering tots, with leaves for bed; 
Houses made of gingerbread; 
Witches bad and fairies good, 
And all the wonders of the wood. 

'I like the witches best,' says she, 
Who nightly nestles on my knee; 
And why by them she sets such store, 
Psychologists may puzzle o'er. 
Her likes are mine, and I agree 
With all that she confides to me. 




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And thus we travel, hand in hand, 
The storied roads of Fairyland. 



Ah, Little One, when years have fled, 
And left their silver on my head, 
And when the dimming eyes of age 
With difficulty scan the page, 
Perhaps I'll turn the tables then; 
Perhaps I'll put the question, when 
I borrow of your better sight, 
'Please, will you read to me to-night?' 

— Bert Leston Taylor. 

Y TOW sweet it were, if, without feeble 
**• **■ fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bow- 
ers 
News of dear friends, and children who have 

never 
Been dead indeed — as we shall know for 

ever. 
Alas! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths — angels that are to be, 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air; 
A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart 

sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future 
wings. — Leigh Hunt. 





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KNEW a man, a common farmer, the 
father of five sons, 

And in them the fathers of sons, and in 
them the fathers of sons. 

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, 
beauty of person, 

The shape of his head, the pale yellow and 
white of his hair and beard, the im- 
measurable meaning of his black eyes, 
the richness and breadth of his manners, 

These I used to go and visit him to see, he 
was wise also, 

He was six feet tall, he was over eighty 
years old, his sons were massive, clean, 
bearded, tan-faced, handsome, 

They and his daughters loved him, all who 
saw him loved him, 

They did not love him by allowance, they 
loved him with personal love, 

When he went with his five sons and many 
grandsons to hunt or fish, you would 
pick him out as the most beautiful and 
vigorous of the gang. 

— Walt Whitman. 






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TTE was so ill, my little boy, 

A My hope and joy, 
And I had left the path to God 
So long untrod! 
The selfishness that I had kept 
About me like a garment crept 
From off my soul; I knelt and wept: 

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Punished so bitterly; and oh, 
I merited it so! 

He writhed and tossed, my little lad, 

Lately so glad! 

The fever on his face was red 

'Gainst the white bed; 

His eyes looked at me burning bright 

And knew me not, for all their light: 

The world was noon; but oh, the night 

About my boy, about my heart, 

Lest we should have to part! 

I knelt me there and prayed: 

I whispering said 

The prayer in childhood taught to me 

At a dear knee, 

Making myself a child once more: 

Phrases almost forgot before 

Poured from a breast so sudden sore, 

So heedless only yesterday 

Of God's mysterious way. 

So knelt I there to pray and weep 

His soul to keep — 

I durst not pray his soul to take 

Ere he should wake ! 

Yet, as the long hours lagged, his brow 

Grew cooler, though I knew not how. . . . 

Alas, that it should be but now 

I mind me of God's Fatherhood, 

Remember He is good! 

— Wallace Rice. 



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rpHE lights come in from the street, 
-*■ In the school-room windows; 

cold, 
Solemn, unlighted, austere, 
Through the gathering darkness, arise 
The chapel-walls, in whose bound 
Thou, my father, art laid! 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain! 
Somewhere, surely, afar, 
In the sounding labor-house vast 
Of being, is practised that strength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm. 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 
Conscious or not of the past, 
Still thou performest the word 
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, 
Prompt, unwearied, as here! . . . 

But thou wouldst not alone 
Be saved, my father! alone 
Conquer and come to thy goal, 
Leaving the rest in the wild. 
We were weary, and we 
Fearful, and we in our march 
Fain to drop down and to die. 
Still thou turnedst, and still 
Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
Gavest the weary thy hand. 
If, in the paths of the world, 

85 






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Stones might have wounded thy feet, 
Toil or dejection have tried 
Thy spirit, of that we saw 
Nothing — to us thou wast still 
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! 

And through thee I believe 

In the noble and great who are gone; 

Pure souls honored and blest 

By former ages, who else 

Seemed but a dream of the heart, 

Seemed but a cry of desire. 

— Matthew Arnold. 

T~\IONYSIUS the elder, when he saw his 
**^ son in many things very inordinate, 
said to him, 'Did you ever know me to do 
such things?' His son answered, 'No, but 
you had not a prince to your father.' The 
father replied, 'No, nor you, if you take 
these courses, will have a prince to your 
son.' — Lord Bacon. 

TTOW many a father have I seen, 
* **■ A sober man, among his boys, 

Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 
Who wears his manhood hale and green! 

— Alfred Tennyson. 

[Fa son ask bread of any of you that is a 
A father, will he give him a stone? or if he 
ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a ser- 
pent? — Saint Luke. 



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IT'S a comfort to me in life's battle 

When the conflict seems going all 
wrong, 
When I seem to lose every ambition 

And the current of life grows too strong, 
To think that the dusk ends the warfare, 
That the worry is done for the night, 
And the little chap there at the window 
Believes that his daddy's all right. 

In the heat of the day and the hurry 

I'm prompted so often to pause, 
While my mind strays away from the striv- 
ing, 

Away from the noise and applause : 
The cheers may be meant for some other; 

Perhaps I have lost in the fight; 
But the little chap waits at the window, 

Believing his daddy's all right. 

I can smile at the downfalls and failure, 

I can smile at the trials and pain ; 
I can feel that, in spite of the errors, 

The struggle has not been in vain, 
If fortune will only retain me 

That comfort and solace at night, 
When the little chap waits at the window, 

Believing his daddy's all right. 

— Louis E. Thayer. 



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useful which was not honest. 

— Benjamin Franklin. 
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T 71 THO took me from my mother's arms 

* * And, smiling at her soft alarms, 
Showed me the world and nature's charms? 

Who made me feel and understand 

The wonders of the sea and land, 

And mark through all the Maker's hand? 

Who climbed with me the mountain's height 
And watched my look of dread delight 
While rose the glorious orb of light? 

Who from each flower and verdant stalk 
Gathered a honeyed store of talk 
And filled the long, delightful walk? 

Who now in pale and placid light 
Of memory bursts upon my sight, 
Bursting the sepulcher of night? 

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice 

With charm of thy angelic voice ; 

Still prompt the motive and the choice; 

For yet remains a little space 

Till I shall meet thee face to face, 

And not, as now, in vain embrace. 

— William Drennan. 

T^THATEVER the unknown days may 

* * bring me to build with, my house of 
life will be the better for the guidance of 
Dad, my father and friend. 

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ABRAHAM LINCOLN was sitting 
***• on his porch in Springfield one morn- 
ing, reading the paper. His wife was giv- 
ing their little three-year-old Willie his 
bath. Suddenly the amused father saw the 
twinkle of rosy legs as the little boy, scream- 
ing with joy at his escape from his mother's 
arms, ran past and on down the street. 
Dropping his newspaper, the good father 
stood up to watch the flight, laughing. 

Mrs. Lincoln's appearance changed the 
aspect of the affair. 'Run and get him, 
Abe,' she insisted. 'He'll catch his death 
of cold. There, he's in the cornfield!' 

Being chased was a game Willie under- 
stood. The running of the tall figure of 
the well known lawyer was enough to at- 
tract the neighbors, and a large and growing 
audience saw the flight and capture. 

Past the smiling friends in the windows 
and on the walk strode the tall man, his 
son's fat legs around his neck as the urchin 
crowed and squealed with delight from his 
lofty perch. But it was not until he had 
been covered with kisses that he was so ele- 
vated, and not until he had been thoroughly 
kissed again was he restored to his mother. 

TV/I Y Daddy is a fellow man 

With such redeeming features 
As fall within the common plan 
Designed for human creatures. 

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When I was young I thought that he 

Was quite a god, or near it, 
Unsinning, wonderful to see, 

And wise in mind and spirit. 

Then I grew up, and as I grew, 
I went to school and college, 

And learned so much — some of it true- 
That Dad seemed lacking knowledge; 

Or so I thought, in priggish days 
When life and I were callow, 

Before I'd caught the world's wise ways 
Through harvest time and fallow. 

And now again my Daddy is 

A wise, if mortal, fellow, 
With hosts of sound experiences 

To leave him ripe and mellow. 

He is much like the rest of us 

Whom years leave sweet and winning, 
And kindly, just, and generous, 

More sinned against than sinning; 

And more and more it seems to me, 

No matter what the lad is, 
He'll wish some day that he could be 

As good as his good Dad is. 

— Alexander MacLean. 





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TJE never wished a single tear to flow 
*■• *■* Except in gratitude for kindly word 
Or deed his heart impelled him to bestow. 
The whispers of the blest are by him 

heard, 
As in all ears they breathe what we should 

do, 

pain, 
But spurned by all, save by the noble few 
Who kindly lead them to a higher plane. 

He never boasts of any good he's done, 

But gentle impulse blooming into deeds 

Have dropped in blessings rich on many a 

one 

Who never knew the hand that met their 

needs. 

Through all the years the lofty thoughts 

have been 

Slow moulding his serene and happy face, 

Till you can almost see the soul within 

His features lighting with its hollowed 

grace. — Edwin Oscar Gale. 

"V/TY children, I must leave you now, 
^ "■• The death-drops stand upon my 

brow ; 
My pulse is beating cold and low; 
Once more good-bye before I go. v 

And why good-bye? for what is death? 
I yield to earth my fleeting breath; 

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Some angel points an open door; 
I pass; and earthly life is o'er. 

Beyond a vista far unrolls; 

Death brings me to this world of souls, 

The home of the immortal mind, 

Not burdened more or powers confined. 

I cannot fear; the smiles of love 
Even now are beaming from above; 
I feel the breath of morn — but lo ! 
I hear the summons : I must go. 

I'll come in spirit; Heaven shall send 
Her faithful guardians to defend, 
To teach, to guide with watchful eye 
And bear you home — Good-bye, good-bye. 
— Edmund S. Holbrook. 









1 VfO man can tell but he that loves his 
-^ children how many delicious accents 
make a man's heart dance in the pretty con- 
versation of these dear pledges; their child- 
ishness, their stammering, their little angers, 
their innocence, their imperfections, their 
necessities, are so many little emanations of 
joy and comfort to him that delights in their 
persons and society ; but he that loves not his 
wife and children feeds a lioness at home 
and broods a nest of sorrows. 

— Jeremy Taylor. 






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"^\EAR child, with eyes of heaven's stain 
■*~^ And face like fair flowers blowing, 
It fills me with a sense of pain 
To see how fast thou'rt growing. 

But yesterday heaven's crystal door 
Unclosed, and we received thee ; 

To-morrow thou wilt find how poor 
The world that has deceived thee. 

Already with such serious eyes 
Thou look'st between thy kisses, 

I feel that thou art growing wise, 
Too wise for childhood's blisses. 

I think of Jesus full of glee 

Within the sunlit meadows, 
And Mary with sad eyes that see 

Far off the Cross's shadows. 

And I could almost bow and pray: 

'O Lord, if this Thy will is, 
Let this sweet child for ever play 

Amid sweet Nazareth's lilies!' 

That thou must leave this happy plain 
To life's steep Calvary going, 

It fills me with sense of pain 

To see how fast thou'rt growing. 

— William James Dawson. 

A WISE son maketh a glad father. 
**' — The Proverbs of Solomon. 




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SI IK/THEN first I heard the little cry l||J§ 

* * Which told the earth and told 

the sky 
I was a father, even I, 

My eyes so rilled with holy joy, 
A golden bliss without alloy, 
I scarce could see my little boy! 

Certain am I that all the years 
Of fatherhood, its cares and fears, 
Cannot outweigh these happy tears. 

Perchance my father's happiness 
So wondrous was, that he can bless 
All I have brought him of distress. 

I wept with gladness, for it seemed — 
This rapture that upon me streamed — 
As if I slept, as if I dreamed; 




And then, as in a swirl of fire, 
I saw my vision soaring higher 
In one vast sweep of son and sire, 







Until it touched the Heavenly Throne 
And bathed the Everlasting One 
With all the bliss now made my own; 

So that I thought I understood, 
Unto the full, why God is good: 
He shares with Man His Fatherhood. 

— Wallace Rice 
94 








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